


Evergreen

by Tezzieh



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fix It Fic, M/M, yeet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 20:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tezzieh/pseuds/Tezzieh
Summary: [I AM SLOW AF WITH UPDATING, BUT I WILL EVENTUALLY]Yeah, so Durin's line doesn't die and cute stuff happens in Erebor





	Evergreen

The brothers part ways with Dwalin and Thorin. Whereto their uncle and tutor go, they have no time to think of. They head into the tunnels in the peaks. “Stay by me, Nadad, we must look out for one another now.” Fili finds his palm sweaty on the hilt of his sword. Kili notches and arrow, expelling a loud exhale. The scent of Orc is overwhelming. The brothers almost gag on it. They press themselves against each other, back to back. Their ears perk and their eyes strain in the barely lit tunnels for a sign of the foul enemy.  
With hideous shouts, several smaller Gundabad Orcs dash into the tunnels. Kili loses his arrow, in the forehead of the first Orc. “Give me cover Kee.” Fili says. And with a loud yell he dashes towards the small group. Left and right his sword swings, cutting indiscriminately. Kili notches a second arrow. He gets no chance to give his brother cover, for from the other side of the tunnel, more Orc’s approach.   
Once Kili’s quiver is empty he draws a sword. Soon the brothers are surrounded by slain Orcs. “Now let’s be quiet.” Fili whispers. The brothers tiptoe around the bend. More Orc’s await them, with their backs to the two dwarves. Their stealth seems to work out. That is, until Kili charges at the nearest Orc a little bit too swift. He forgets to be quiet, but strikes the Orc on the back of his head either way. The Orc goes down easily enough, but his friends are now fully aware that they are up against two rather young dwarves. Kili and Fili are by no means green and unbleeded, but the Orc’s are large and foul and fierce.   
But before fear can grip at their heart, several of the Orc’s fall over, dead where they stand. Arrow stick out of their eyes and temples and chests. The ugliest among them pulls an arrow lose from one of his comrades. “Elven arrows.” Kili mouths to his older brother. “So the pointy ears decided to join the party.” Fili smirks and brandishes swift and beautiful golden daggers. Kili follows him when he charges.

Together with Legolas and Tauriel, they slay the Orcs in the tunnels. They enjoy the fight, especially since the fighting style of the elves seems to so naturally compliment theirs. This is unexpected, but very fortunate. 

From the tunnels, they head to the foothills, where Dwalin is alone, Orcs swarming him, but more laying dead around him. Kili and Fili run for him, but Legolas and Tauriel veer around. Orcs fall under the assault of daggers, knives, sword and axe. Once they cease coming, the three dwarves look to the frozen river.   
On the frozen river stands the King. He is alone. Alone against the Pale Orc. “We stay out of this.” Dwalin growls to the younger dwarves. “This is his revenge.” Fili whispers. They stand, tensely, watching Thorin face off Azog. No other Orcs stir around them, only those in the valley are still alive and those are few.   
Three elves and a human join the spectating princes and their tutor. “What is he doing? Does he really think he can win?” Bard asks, his dark brows furrowed and damp with sweat and blood. There is a small smile on Thranduil’s pale lips. “You’d be surprised.” He purrs. He holds a hand out to his son. Legolas fixes him with an impatient and slightly uncomprehending stare. “The sword.” The Elven King is curt. Reluctant Legolas hands his father The Sword Orcrist. Without as much as another word, Thranduil hurls the blade at Thorin. The dwarven king catches the sword by the hilt, as if his hand belongs there. Azog’s eyes widen at the sight of The Foe Hammer. Thorin tosses his own blade aside, kicking it off the frozen waterfall so it cannot be utilized against him.   
“I will break you!” Azog taunt Thorin, in the common tongue, which he speaks but clumsily. “How can a broken creature break a king?” There is almost a hint of humor in Thorin’s voice. The spectators wait with baited breath while the two fighters circle each other. Time seems to stand still. Thranduil seems to be chewing on the inside of his lip. He is tense and seems apt to leap into the fray. But he doesn’t, because he knows this is Thorin’s fight.

Legolas and Tauriel run into the valley, to join the larger fight.

Azor swings at Thorin with his morning star. Thorin dances out of the way, but not quick enough. The black weapon scrapes Thorin’s upper arm, tearing at his doublet. Blood trickles down his sleeve. He swears loudly and charges at the pale Orc, sideways. He swings, again and again, cutting at Azog’s arm and side. The Pale Orc is enraged and swings blindly at Thorin, not caring how he hits the Dwarven King. Thorin finds it hard to avoid the ruthless rapid blows, but Orcrist seems to know where he needs to go. The sword leads the fighter. He strikes off Azog’s good arm. But the vile creature keeps at it, even though he is bleed profusely. Thorin darts out of reach. Azog clumsily closes the distance. He swings his morningstar with all his might. Thorin dives under the motion and brings his sword upwards arc. In one fell swing, he lops off Azog’s other arm. The Pale Orc falls down hard. He screams curses in the foul language of his breed. Thorin screams back in Khuzdul and hews off the Orc’s head.  
He bends down, picking up the head he has lopped off. Blood still drips from the veins. He walks, proudly and majestically, to the edge over the river, looking down on a fight that is all but over. “EREBOR IS OURS!!!” He screams, throwing Azog’s head to the feet of the few Orcs that are still fighting. Dain is the one that roars a cheer, before everyone else does. The last few Orcs attempt to flee, but spears and arrow feel them. Euphoria waves through the crowd.

Kili, Fili, Dwalin and even Thranduil, run to Thorin. “We did it, we beat those sons of bitches!” Dwalin yells. He embraces Thorin. The King hugs back his best friend. He feel fatigue now grasp at his bones and wounds. “Yes, we did it.” He says hoarsely. Dwalin let’s go of him. Thorin turns to his sister-sons. “You did well, my boys.” He says, with more love in his voice than they had ever heard from their own father. Kili flusters and Fili grins proudly. “Thank you, my king.” The blond Prine kneels. “Rise, Fili, son of Garin, for you are my heir and you shall not kneel for me.” Thorin speaks. Fili’s ears turn bright red with pride. 

“Now, let us join with our people and burn the foes we slew.” Thorin says. He hasn’t yet addressed the Elven King.

~ 

Even though everyone is tired from fighting, they labour. The woman of Laketown are charged with cooking, aided by the youngsters and the Hobbit and Bofur and Bombur and Dori. Those who are learned in healing tend to the wounded with Gandalf, Oín, Balin and Tauriel. Those not otherwise indisposed aid in the gathering of the bodies. First they pile up the Orcs, Wargs and Goblins and set them on fire, away from the wind. The smoke smells foul, but stays away from Dale and the encampment of the Elves and Dwarves.   
Then the dead that remain are gathered. Dwarves, Lake people and even some elves. Their eyes are closed and they are covered with their cloaks. They are identified by Daín, Thorin or Thranduil and the Lake folk by Bard. Ori makes a list of all deceased. They will have a suitable farewell after the surviving are rested. 

When the battlefield is cleared of the dead, the living crawl back into their tents and fall asleep like bricks.

The sun finds the sleepers groggy, Even the Elven King is in ill mood. Or rather, especially the Elven King. He is still abed when Thorin, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, walks into his tent. Bard wanders in after him, wearing only his breeches. Thranduil is altogether utterly displeased with the wake up comity. “No! This is not happening!” He sits up and draws his sheets up to his chin. He seems to be naked in his ornate oaken bed. “We have a lot to do, your highness.” Bard says, trying not to look at the Elven King’s milky pale skin, which is without any blemish and has even a sort of silvery shine to it. “Get out of bed, you faery.” Thorin says. This is sufficient to rouse Thranduil to his feet. In a flurry of silver blond hair and bed sheet, he is up. Thorin shoves Bard out of the tent before the bowman could glimpse at Thranduil’s nakedness.  
Thranduil seems entirely unbothered by Thorin’s presence while he all but dances about his tent to wash and dress himself. He sits in his large hair and brushes his hair, utterly in vain, for it is already beyond perfect. “Don’t sit around!” Thorin yells. “Oh, you just bet I will sit around. I will sit around until you lot are washed and well dressed.” With those words Thranduil leans back into his chair and looks Thorin in the eye. “Well, how about it?” He cooes. “We have too much to do!” Thorin barks. Thranduil rises, looking down on the dwarf in arrogant disdain. Thorin turns away to avoid those accusatory eyes.   
Thranduil smiles wickedly and placed his slender, graceful hands on Thorin’s shoulders. “To the river with you.” He ushers. He pushes Thorin out of his tent, to the river that meanders from the mountain to the lake. “Undress.” He says sharply. Then, with an outcry of a single sophisticated word, he calls his soldiers to him. The elves come over. “Usher all the people and the dwarves into the river. They need to wash.” Says their King sternly.

Not ten minutes later all dwarves and the Lake people are undressing themselves. Thranduil’s chair has been brought to the stream’s bed and he sits, happily spectating. Legolas and Tauriel stand behind him. “Ada, is this necessary?” Legolas asks, mildly disdained. “Oh, my sweet summer’s boy, you have no idea how necessary this is.” Thranduil purrs. “I indeed don’t.” Legolas huffs. But then Bard, standing a few feet away in the water, turn his torso towards the elves. Thranduil chuckles softly. “Do you see my point now, son?” He cooes. Legolas’ cheeks turn raspberry pink and the tips of his pointed ears burn with heat. “You two are disgusting.” Tauriel takes her leave.   
Thranduil lounges comfortable in his chair, his pale eyes trained on the only dwarf he is truly keen on. Thorin is a mass of thick muscles and rather hairy, safe for his buttocks, back and neck. Thranduil quite likes Thorin’s buttocks. He reminds himself to tease him with it later.   
The elves bring clean clothes and towels and Gandalf retrieves dwarven finery. The dwarves, washed and wet, come to the camp and are given the towels and clean clothes. Thranduil has his chair carried back to his tent and goes to find Thorin.

Fili and Kili, who share a tent, dry off without hurry. “You’ll need to let me brush your hair now Kee.” Says Fili. “Must you?” Kili asks. “We’ll be princes soon, Nadad. And think of what mother will say when she sees your hair a tangled mess. She is cross enough with the fact that you shave. Which is, Kee, utterly undwarvish.” Fili casts aside his towel and find himself the fitting pair of silken undergarments. That’s something else than the woolen undies he is used to. He dresses himself in the colors of the beast he is often compared with. The dun and yellow and slight browns of the lions that hunt the plains. Kili dresses too, in dark blue of the night sky and black for his breeches. He then grabs a brush and the beads for in Fili’s hair. He brushes the blond tresses and braids selective parts of it. The beads go in the braids that frame the blond’s face and the braids of his mustache. Fili looks every part the crown prince.  
He takes the brush from his brother’s fingers and makes Kili sit down. “Khazash, you don’t have to.” Kili whines. “Yes I have, you need to look the part. You can’t wear a prince’s clothes and have your hair look like a patch of brown weeds.” Fili scolds. He yanks at the snags in Kili’s hair. Kili whines, but Fili carries on. He braids the front strands away from Kili’s face and secures those on the back of his head with an ornamental clasp.

Thorin, under the watchful eye of Thranduil, dresses in royal blue, his long silver-blue overcoat trimmed with snow white fur. Thranduil combs and braids his hair and fluffs up his beard, so that Thorin looks majestic like never before. He’s adorned with several rings and the necklace with the key. “There, you look the part. Now to make sure that Bowman does too.” Thranduil strides out of Thorin’s tent, into Dale, where he finds Bard and thoroughly bosses him around, to the joy of the man’s daughters.  
Thorin wanders off to gather his company. Fili in the colors of a lion, Kili in night blue. Balin in red and Dwalin in dark brown. Gloín in grass green and Oín in the shades of forest moss. Bofur in yellow, Bombur in pine needle green and Bifur in steely grey. Nori in purple, Dori in the shade of an eggplant and Ori in a patchwork of knitting. “Not bad.” Thorin says with a deep chuckle. The Bilbo shows up, dressed in children’s clothes, but looking rather splendid nonetheless. “Master Baggings.” Says Thorin with a small nod. Bilbo seems to marvel at the dwarves for a moment. “Good Morning.” The Hobbit then says softly. “Good morning.” The dwarves chorus.  
The blow of a horn pierces the nippy autumn air. Everyone looks up. The Elven King comes forward. “It is time to lay the dead to rest.” He says, his noble, lulling voice carrying far. Thorin nods in agreement. “People of Dale, burry your people how you see fit, for we will too.” He says, his baritone voice carrying far. Bard steps to the forefront. “People of Lake Town, we have no boats to send off our dead anymore. We will build a funeral pyre for those fallen.” He says loudly. The Lake people all flock to him and busy themselves with the fallen of their own race.  
Thranduil turns away and ushers his fellows elves off. They occupy themselves with loading their fallen onto carts, which will take them back to the woodland realm. Legolas and Tauriel leave with the Elven host. Only Thranduil remains.

The people of Durin’s folk split in two groups. On group will carve memorial stones for the fallen and the other will carry them into the mountain and bring them deep underground where generations before them are laid to rest. This process takes three full days.

~

On the fourth day, the dwarven host rests. 

They sit by their tents and drink large tankards of ale. Until horns sound for a distance. They are most certainly dwarf horns. “Our people!” Daín says. Thorin springs to his feet and peers to where the horns sound again. Dwalin’s horn sounds in reply. “Did mother come?” Kili asks. Thorin nods. “Yes, they have received the message that Erebor is ours again.” Thorin says with a curt nod. The brothers jump to their feet and take off sprinting. They rush to meet their other family and their friends. Even if it takes them a couple of hours until they have reached them, they still are too eager to simply await.  
Rather suddenly Thranduil appears beside Thorin. “It is almost time.” The elf purrs. Thorin’s dark blue eyes flick up at Thranduil’s face. “For what?” He asks sharply. The hardness is a front, he fears Thranduil will leave before they have a true moment together. “Your coronation, what else?” Thranduil says with a smile. “With Erebor half in ruins, you are barking mad.” Thorin says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have laboured so hard for this Thorin, wait no longer. Your people are all with you now. Be their king.” Thranduil replies. “Under your royal guidance, let Erebor prosper.” He places a graceful hand on Thorin’s shoulder.

Toward the third hour of the afternoon, under the leadership of Dis, the women, children and elders of Durin’s folk reach the encampment. “That is about time.” Thorin says with a smile to his sister. “We came as swift as we could, but we have elders and infants in our group.” Dis says strict. But her beardy face splits into a wide smile. “I am glad you are here. Were your travels safe?” Thorin clasps his sister by her shoulders, which are about as broad as his. Dis would have been easily confused for a duplicate of her brother, were it not for her dress and ample breasts.  
Thorin presses his lips into a thin line. “I wish he could see this day.” He whispers. Dis knows who her brother speaks of. The youngest of three, who died before the elder siblings. Frerin should have seen these days. Frerin would have likely gone with Thorin on his quest. “Garin, too.” Dis whispers. Thorin nods hesitantly. Yes, Garin should have seen it too. Garin would have gone on the quest. Garin and Frerin, rather than Kili and Fili. Now there would have been an adventure to put all others to shame. But they rest beside each other in mountains far away. Thorin and Dis miss them every day and see them so much in Fili and Kili.   
“Come now, sister, I will show you the home of our fathers.” Thorin says. “It is magnificent mother!” Kili cheers. “I can’t believe we saw Erebor before you, ma.” Fili says with a calm chuckle. “You are Erebor’s princes, it is supposed to be that way.” Says Dis. Thorin gives a nod in agreement.

Kili and Fili soon skitter off to find their friends. Gimli and other youths are reuniting with their fathers. But as soon as the brothers show up, the youngsters forget their parents. Their friends are princes now. That is a far more impressive feat than their war hero fathers, which most of them already were.  
Kili and Fili spend hours on end telling their friends of their adventures. “When I am older, I will have an adventure too!” Gimli exclaims. Everyone laughs loudly. “That is, when Gloín will allow you!” Kili jeers.


End file.
